


To serve and what it takes

by DarkShadeless



Series: Ties That Bind [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: A+ Parenting, Canon Typical Violence, Gen, In a way, The Templar Order - Freeform, slight AU, what do you call it when it's not a parent doing the thing but it's still A+
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:32:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12212265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: There are many ways one may serve the Maker, or come to do so.One way Mellard Amell's life might go if he was neither Warden nor a Mage.





	1. Blessed are they who stand before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody knew mage hunters tended to run fast and lose.

He was already there when they made it into the yard for practice. Slashing away at one of the dummies with live steel, the wicked curve of Hunter blades tearing holes with every strike. He was wearing the heavy leathers they handed out to the recruits to get them used to the weight before they got their own full plate, because it made no sense to hand them a new one every three inches they shot up. Their instructor took one look at the lad and his mouth tightened into an expression that had the Junior Knights edge away from him.

They fell into formation on his command. The new kid included. _Huh. Don’t tell me._

Darrin took in the way Ser Combden was eyeing the new addition and started gauging how long the odds were that he’d make it past today. His posture was picture perfect but that didn’t mean much.

It meant very little indeed. For the rest of their drill Combden seemed to find fault in everything the kid did and he made him feel it too. To his credit the lad endured the harassment without a word of complaint. Like a golem, completely stone faced.

It was just _weird_. Where had he even come from? He didn’t look a day older than fifteen. Not too young for drills but they were past recruit stuff. The Corporal was raking him across the coals but he hadn't thrown him out. _Not that he can’t keep up, looks like._

“Sixteen, actually, or so I hear.” Lunch hour. The perfect opportunity to load up on food, rumours and a few friendly bets. “Come up from Ferelden with some mage hunter they called over.”

That would explain why Corporal Combden had had it out for him. Stickler for proper chain of command, that one. Everybody knew mage hunters tended to run fast and lose. Most were only required to report in ever so often to get their rations or drop off the occasional apostate. Long as they got results nobody cared to pull the reigns too much on them.

“Really? That slip of a thing?” Kid couldn’t have stood higher than Darrin’s nose, if he was any judge. Not built on broad lines, lean and narrow.

“Yep.” Ser Anshelm seemed to savour the word to its fullest. “Tiny little mage killer.”

Darrin frowned into his stew. “He _can’t_ be old enough for the lyrium.” They waited with that until you were avowed and vows usually came around at eighteen. Age wasn’t a requirement, it hinged more on the fact that most recruits took six years or more before they were on level. Not all, not the ones they took already half trained but there were things you couldn’t learn outside the Order.

Yet the kid had been in the Junior Knight classes, even if he was almost a head shorter than anyone else there. Despite anything Combden had had to say anyone with eyes could tell he had the discipline down. His sequences had been one of the cleanest in the yard, every move smooth and economic. Needless to say that wasn’t going to make him many friends, if the grumbling Darrin had heard on his way out was any indication.

Anshelm shrugged. “Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe his taskmaster wants him to have the head start on lessons when he gets it. I hear they’ve been out in the field almost as long as he’s had the boy. Might head out again, too, if that’s what orders say and you know how it is.”

He did. Darrin had heard the recruits complain that had come in late, age wise. Even if they had had training, they might be as good as they thought they were, but no one got past the qualifications. Experience outside only meant you might have a foot up in proving you were ready.

 

It went like that, for some months. The midget would turn up in lessons, then disappear for a while. Headed out with his mentor, or so the grapevine said. It also said a lot about what they were supposedly up to. Running down apostates. Flushing out blood mages in the middle of nowhere. Darrin was pretty sure most of it was exaggerated and then blown up a bit more for good measure. Only so many times you could do verses on watch before it drove you spare.

Third time their mascot showed up in the yard he was still in leather but there were stripes on it that had Corporal Combden look ready to bite through his own shield. _Old enough for vows after all, looks like. I wonder if they gave him the lyrium too?_

They must have.

When his mentor headed out this time the kid didn’t leave with him. Stayed behind, decimating dummies and sitting through theory with an equally grim slant to his mouth. The expression looked out of place on a face so young. It took Darrin entirely too long to realize the lad wasn’t just pissy about being left home to mind the chickens.

That the tension in him wasn’t the readiness he had gotten used to seeing, that would flow into strikes and parries during drills without a sign of hesitation.

Last week one of their heavier set comrades had taken offence at Andraste only knew what and tried to put him in his place during spars. _That was a lie. Darrin had caught the tail end of a sentence that sounded suspiciously like ‘Shields are for people who can’t dodge.’ Mouthy little bastard._

He hadn’t even seen what the menace had done to get under Leaman’s guard and trip him but he had caught the merciless backhand that had had the Junior Knight eating dirt alright. It had earned the kid a lecture about proper form. _Didn’t look repentant, though._

It figured, he wouldn’t be either. In Darrin’s opinion, form was all well and good but if the Maker wanted his sworn knights to get results against _magic_ a bit of dirty fighting wouldn’t land them in penance with Him.

But he was getting ahead of himself. Twitchy, that’s what their little midget was. Even now, one hand shovelling grub into his face as if it was the last meal he’d ever eat, the other on the table, balled into a fist. Sure, the kid was usually tense enough but this was ridiculous.

A faint wash of magic brushed over his senses, just a touch. Some apprentice a story up must have messed up a spell big time for that to come through even this much. To be honest Darrin almost missed it. They were guard to Ostwick Circle, some magic was always floating around.

In the same moment, across the room, the lad he had been watching flinched so hard he almost upended his bowl. _Well, fuck me._

No wonder he hadn’t been allowed out this time.

 

Guard rotation was dull as fuck. It always was but being paired with someone who seemed to be allergic to chatter didn’t make it any better. _Right stick in the mud. A tiny, grumpy stick._

To be fair, the kid wasn’t that small anymore. He was almost of a height with Darrin these days, if half his weight. Or so it looked at least. He certainly _ate_ like he was starving.

“So, hear your teacher might be back soon.” Silence.

“Right. Can’t be sure, eh?” _Maker_. _Talkative fellow._ They had been at this for hours. He hadn’t had an answer yet. Darrin wasn’t even sure the kid heard him, for all the reaction he got. “Miss him?”

That got something. Nothing much, just a bit of change flying over the lad’s face, there and gone. Darrin couldn’t for the life of him make out what it might mean. He felt awkward anyway. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

Dead quiet. Actually, a crypt might be louder. He had heard there were undead about, sometimes. _And how creepy is that?_ Almost as creepy as spending the rest of the night here, standing next to a boy four years his junior that might as well have been a statue.

Darrin cleared his throat. Suppressed a wince when it echoed in the corridor. “Still in leather, I see.” He didn’t know why he was still trying, just that the silence was killing him and-

“Plate’s not worth it yet.” The Junior Knight almost jumped clean out of his skin, armour and all.

He broke protocol, stance shifted to stare at his shift partner. Blue eyes flickered over to him. It was the only movement he could see. At least he wasn’t gaping like an idiot _. So he can talk. Will you look at that._

“I’ll only grow out of it. Too loud on the trail anyhow.”

Matter of fact, like he was reading it straight out of a textbook. Without the bark answering their drill sergeants generally took the kid's voice sounded almost soft. _Maybe it just hasn’t broken yet._ Somehow Darrin didn’t think that was it. It suited him, in a way. Silk over steel.

“That right?” Thank the Maker his mouth could run by itself most days.

The midget was back to staring straight ahead. “Master Gard says so.”

That was about the amount of conversation Darrin managed to get out of him that night. It was better than nothing, honestly.

 

He tried more often, after that. In for a copper and all. In all honesty, Darrin wasn’t sure why he had started bothering the lad in the first place. Sure, it had all been a bit weird, but most of his classmates had adjusted and moved on. He, on the other hand, had gotten stuck.

It was just… something wasn’t right. About all of it, about him. Nothing _bad,_ like the hints older Knights sometimes talked about you should look for in people, just strange. It tugged at his attention like a puzzle all in pieces. Waiting to be put together.

He had never been able to resist a puzzle in his life.

Putting anything together at all was slow going, though.

 

“So, shields are for people who can’t dodge, huh?”

“Master Gard says so.” Master Gard had a lot to say, apparently.

 

“You any good at traps, then?”

“Of course.” He didn’t sound proud of it, puffed up like a lad his age should have been. Maybe a bit puzzled that this had ever been in question at all. Darrin suddenly knew why half their class was liable to try and dunk the boy in the stable trough given half a chance.

 

“Ever seen a Shade?”

“The bears were worse.” What the Void, was that a joke? If it wasn’t, what the fuck was wrong Fereldan wild life?

 

“Ever kill anyone?”

He didn’t get an answer to that one. Or see the kid for a few days after. It was an answer all in itself.

 

The things he found out, over time, were many. The kid’s name was Mellard Amell. He had been from Kirkwall, originally. He had gone to the Chantry at age eight, for reasons he didn’t talk about. _If any of the rumors were right that were flying about concerning his family, then Darrin could make his own guesses. None of them were good._

Master Gard had scooped him up out of the Knight chapter of the Denerim Circle after he had been there about two years and dragged him halfway over Ferelden, by the sound of it. Master Gard had set him to learning the blades right away, convinced he would make a decent hunter someday. Master Gard had him follow along on some hunts and dropped him in a local Chantry for letters and numbers on others. Master Gard preached that if you didn’t feel you were training you weren’t learning anything.

Darrin was really starting to dislike Master Gard and he hadn’t even met the man in person.

 

Overall, once you got past how quiet the kid was, how still, he wasn’t bad company. You could talk at him for hours, to no complaints. By how he would sometimes pipe up somewhere along the way he was even listening, too.

Then there were the moments that left you speechless. Like the time Darrin made a stupid joke about manners and bottomless holes at dinner and his answer was, “Better to fill up, now. On the road you hunt or you don’t eat.” Amell’s voice was even, absentminded. Matter of fact, as he always was when he spoke of lessons. Darrin hadn’t known what to say. He still didn’t.

He had spent that night trying not to think about how there wasn’t an ounce of baby fat on the kid, for all that he looked like he wasn’t done growing. All muscle and sharp edges.

Darrin was starting to dislike Master Gard a _lot_.

He also wasn’t getting seconds anymore. Maker help him all the ribbing about sticks was coming around to bite him in the arse and now he had to feed the kid or his conscience would kill him. His fellow Junior Knights were starting to cluck every time they caught sight of him. Screw them anyhow.

 

When Master Gard came back, Amell left with him. For months Darrin caught himself wondering if he’d see the lad again, or if he would even get to know what had happened to him if he didn't.

He returned, eventually, before the year was out even. Taller than Darrin and in the full plate of a proper Knight.

Most of his mates weren't all green with the boy, young man then really, having caught up to them or overtaken them in the accomplishment. Darrin didn't say anything about it. Took one look at the shadows in Amell's, _his friend's and when had that happened?_ , eyes and left well enough alone. Much as he liked puzzles some things just weren't supposed to be dug up.

 

 


	2. The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He still dreamt of the rabbit sometimes. Of all the things, the rabbit.

Mellard didn’t quite know how it had happened. For years, now, he had been Master Gard’s apprentice. It hadn’t been easy, at first. Master Gard was demanding. He would have your best and he would have it without complaints or dithering. The first months, year perhaps, had been hard.

Not that it had been different, after, but Mellard had known what to expect then. Had started to grow into his lessons, his duties.

It hadn’t been so bad, really. _For some reason Darrin always got a look on his face when he said that, one he couldn’t quite interpret._

Demanding, certainly. There had been so much to learn. Lessons that were important but that Mellard didn’t always care for.

 

_He still dreamt of the rabbit sometimes. It was ridiculous. Of all the things, the rabbit. The knife his teacher held out to him, too big for his hands. ‘You kill it or you don’t eat tonight, boy. Your choice.’_

_He hadn’t ever killed anything before._

_In the dreams he did, scarlet splattering on brown fur._

_That wasn’t quite the truth. He had held out two days, once, before the grumbling of his stomach had become too much. Master Gard had seemed almost impressed by that._

_When Mellard had scrubbed at his bloodstained hands, tears clouding his eyes and the terrible, joyous relief that he would have something to eat today making his chest light he had hooked his knuckles under his chin and looked at him with serious eyes, grim and satisfied. ‘Sometimes something has to die so something else can live. That’s how the Maker made it, boy. That’s what it means to be a protector. People will spin pretty tales about honour and the Maker’s will but that’s what it comes down to, in the end. Blood, on your hands. Someday you will have to kill to save a life and then you can’t hesitate.’_

_He had been right of course. He usually was, Mellard found._

Master Gard wasn’t _cruel_. He had never pushed him just for the sake of pushing, like some of the drill instructors at the Chantries they sometimes stayed at would. Mellard learned the difference quickly. To some lessons there was no point but that you had to do what the person telling you to do them said. To make you feel that they had power. It was stupid, really. They had power so they would do something useful with it and instead they were doing _that_. It was shameful.

When he had gotten bold enough to say such to his own teacher, the man had laughed. Ruffled his hair even. _Aren’t you a smart one? Sharp as a pin. Well, sometimes you do have to make someone feel you’ve got power over them. Can save you a load of trouble, that. You’ll learn._

But yes, Master Gard was demanding. Mellard hadn’t realized how much until he was first stuffed into a class with recruits that stood head and shoulders above him and seemed insulted that he was showing them up, still. Older than him and so _childish_.

He had taken that thought, weighed it and then put it out of his mind. They would learn. He had.

_Pride was a sin. A Knight of the Order had to be above such things. Every skill learned, every rank earned was in service to the Maker, to Andraste and the people of Thedas. Being good, getting far, only meant you were serving well. As you should._

Mellard had taken the lessons his teacher had to give him and done his very best. Camping, footwork, traps. How to following a trail that was almost cold and still find something. How to judge if someone was lying to you and why. How to see if someone was a mage even without feeling it, the way Master Gard could.

Killing. The killing had been the worst.

 

_When they came upon a quarry Master Gard would always, always leave him behind, even if he had taken him along for the hunt. It wasn’t safe. Mellard could mind the camp, he knew how to do that soon enough, but the rest would come once he had mastered the blades, or mostly. Enough to need experience against more than dummies, sparring partners or the occasional wolf._

_He wasn’t quite ready, Master Gard said. Soon. Mellard wasn’t sure he wanted to be ready, ever, he knew what it meant if he was but… sometimes you had to kill to protect someone. It was the way of things._

_If he wanted to serve well, serve fully, he would have to be able to do the hard things, too. Tracking was easy. Catching things alive. Killing them not so much, still, even if he didn’t hesitate anymore. It only made it worse for the animals, they had to be afraid longer if he wasn’t quick about it. Letting them suffer for your own misgivings was cruelty._

_In the end his first kill found him, not the other way around._

_They had been ambushed before. Most bandits weren’t stupid enough to attack a Templar Hunter but some couldn’t be taught. Protocol was for him to dive for cover and hide. Master Gard had been very strict about that. It had been the first thing he learned, how to be so quiet, so still, that a nug could be baited right next to him and not know he was there until it was too late. How to wait. Mellard hadn’t known there was a trick to that before he figured it out._

_When they came around the bend of the road they could already hear they fighting. Master Gard had dragged him off the road and thrown their packs down. ‘Wait here, boy. Can’t let those heathens murder townsfolk. Stay.’_

_Mellard had known what to do. Only it had been different this time._

_He knew what woods were supposed to sound like now. What it sounded like when someone didn’t move quietly enough, running, breath too loud and breaking twigs as they went._

_He slipped into the underbrush before he had made the conscious decision to do so._

_Ahead of him a choked scream, the thump of someone stumbling, falling. Whimpering in pain and it sounded so much like a wounded animal trying to be quiet. He knew it wasn’t. Someone else might have hurried forward, tried to help whomever had gotten hurt._

_Mellard knew better. He had found the prey. So where was the hunter?_

_The crack of a branch, so close. He went still, breath going flat. Even his mind went quiet, the way he had learned to make it. It was almost like praying but only almost._

_He pushed forward slowly. There. A young woman, on the ground. Unarmed. Looked to have twisted her ankle falling. Scratches on her arms, her legs. ‘Breathe in, breathe out. Let the picture slide over you like water. Take it in but don’t let it take you.’ Master Gard's voice, the memory of lessons past almost drowned out by the pounding of his heart._

_A man, breaking through the undergrowth without care, shortsword in hand. Dirty. Worn, broken leather armour. He was going to walk right past Mellard. Fear tried to reach for him. ‘Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t think. Your body knows what to do. You know what to do.’_

_He did._

_Master Gard found him there, sitting on the ground, staring transfixed at the bandit he had made a corpse of, the girl nearby crying in what was mostly relief. He didn’t even punish him for leaving when he was supposed to stay._

_Later, at camp, his teacher had looked at him across the fire and studied him seriously. ‘You did the right thing. You know that, yes boy?’_

_Mellard had given him a small nod. He found he still couldn’t quite get words out. Hadn’t since- since._

_Master Gard’s lips had pressed flat and he had been silent for a while. ‘Feel good? To do the right thing, the only thing and kill that scum?’_

_He had wondered, absently, if there was a wrong answer here. What it was, if it was. Usually the only wrong answer with Master Gard was lying, so Mellard didn’t. Shook his head, tried to ignore the way his eyes were burning. The way his stomach hadn’t settled since he had sunk his blade into flesh and torn it right back out with the backhanded point of the edge leading, the way he should-_

_It had been different, with animals. But not much. Maybe it should have felt more different._

_Something in his teacher seemed to loosen, then, something he hadn’t known had been tense. ‘Good.’_

_His confusion must have shown on his face. Master Gard looked at the fire, then, stared into it the way he always said you shouldn’t because it ruined your night vision. ‘You’ve got the right temperament for this, boy. You’ll want to keep that. Once you’re hunting mages it’ll be hard. Scary thing, magic, when it’s thrown at your face. Dangerous. You can’t hesitate. You know that, I know. You’ll be doing the right thing, the only thing.’ His eyes found Mellard’s, dark and intent. ‘But you can’t like it then, either. If they can be saved it’ll be your job to bring them in, alive. We’re sworn to protect the world from magic and every life lost to it ‘s a tragedy, mages just the same. Don’t you forget it.’_

_They never spoke of it again but he remembered. When things were at their worst, when numbness wanted to reach for him if not pleasure in the act of harming a soul burdened by magic, tormented by demons and lashing out, he remembered and held his oaths close to his heart._

 

Master Gard had taught him much, indeed. The last half year, or thereabouts, they had spent trekking through Starkhaven. Hunting apostates and whatever else have you alongside his mentor, now that he could feel them as well as Master Gard always had, could Smite the magic right out of them if need be.

 

_He didn’t like it. He still thought of them sometimes, snowflakes in summer, the wonder of it, but there was nothing for it. Just as with a killing blow, to be swift was to be kind._

So it came as no little surprise when Mellard walked through the doors of Ostwick Circle and knew he would stay. It was the same certainty that found him in battle, on the trail, when he could see how it would all play out, moments before it did. The rightness of it. When his teacher left he would not follow him. It tasted like truth.

Mellard stopped just past the threshold, unmoored. Eight years, almost nine. Not quite half his life. But he was a Knight now, a Templar Hunter in his own right.

It was time.

Master Gard turned to look what was keeping his apprentice and he must have seen it in him. His face softened, just a little. Mellard almost thought he saw sadness there, maybe pride. Then his teacher nodded, decisive as always, and moved on. Leaving him behind, still stunned.

They didn’t speak more of that, either. There was nothing more to say. Such was the shape of things between them.

Mellard did not know that the day his mentor left not a week later would be the last time he ever saw the man. It didn’t surprise him, looking back later. A mage hunter’s life was hard and Thedas was big enough. You could wander for years and not meet a person twice.

He watched the road long after Master Gard was out of sight.

Perhaps he had known after all, somewhere deep down, that this was goodbye. 

 

 


	3. Blessed are the peacekeepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being Circle-bound was different. It certainly was that.

Mellard spent the first night back from Starkhaven in the chapel on his knees, in prayer. Clearing his mind and asking for guidance on this new path. Come morning he greeted the sun with the Mother, who had kindly asked if he needed something she could give. He didn’t, heart eased and quiet, but he appreciated her blessing all the same.

Then he had found his way to the Knight Captain’s office, to make his case. It seemed almost uncouth, to be bothering a Captain with the matter, but technically what he required fell under redeployment of a foreign Knight. It was Traver’s prerogative to accept or deny.

The halls of the Circle had been silent, as if the entire building was still sleeping.

To say Captain Travers had been surprised to hear his request would be an understatement. “Truly?” He mustered the Knight in front of him. Young, serious. Calm in a way that spoke of maturity. The slight alterations to the armour that marked him a Hunter. “You are aware what it will mean if you are stationed here, of course?”

The Knight frowned slightly. “I’d be quartered here and I’d be moving on orders out of Ostwick only. Was there anything else?”

Travers waited to answer, weighing the words in his mind. “There is. Let me speak plainly, lad.” He sighed. “Your kind isn’t used to cooling their heels around magic, more often than not. You’ll do that, here. We’re guards to the mages of this Circle. When you aren’t required elsewhere so will you be. It’s good you’ve been to the Garrison on and off, gives you a headstart, but you’ll have to learn to deal with the task long term. Fussy enchanters. Apprentices with more magic than sense. Mages throwing sparks and whatnot, whether they mean to or not. Are you up to that?”

The Knight Captain gave Amell a moment to consider that. “There’s no shame in knowing your limits.”

Worded like that the Knight Captain’s misgivings were more than understandable. Generally a mage hunter was required to do three things with mages, find them, shut them down and then get them to a Circle post-haste. Four things, if one counted the need to end those that had gone beyond saving.

None of that was really applicable here. It was part of what had kept Mellard up, had had him spend the night in contemplation. He nodded solemnly. “I’m aware of the requirement. I will do my very best.”

The Captain gave him a weighted look before returning the gesture. They both knew he would have to.

 

Being Circle-bound was different. It certainly was that.

For one, there were _people_. Mellard had known that. He had thought he did, anyhow. Being confronted with the reality of having to spend time with roughly the same people surrounding him on any given day for more than a month at most was something else entirely. He had to make _nice_ , now. At least Darrin insisted he should.

Mellard didn’t really see the point. “If they don’t like me as is, why should I bend so they will?”

His friend groaned into the table top. “Because they will murder you in your _sleep_ , you dolt! Why did you have to tell Karin her hair looks like a mop! I mean it does, but really!”

There was that, too. He could have _friends_ now. Properly, not the way where you had to put them out of your mind again after a few weeks’ time. It was rather nice. He had only managed the one, so far, and sometimes he wanted nothing so much as to strangle the bastard, but it was still nice.

Especially the moments where he looked at something Darrin was doing and wanted to roll his eyes because _Of course_ only to realize that that was so because he _knew_ the man, now.

 

Sometimes his new station was a little claustrophobic.

Mellard had never thought about how used he was to open spaces. He had spent his share of time in Circles and Chantries, after all. Now, knowing it was permanent, it felt so very different. It was a balm when he discovered that for all that it had walls too, the chapel would bring him solace when everything became too loud, too close.

Mother Rosalind seemed to be happy enough for his frequent presence. She took to grumbling about ‘young Knights these days’ and about how good a lad he was ‘but you should really eat more, boy, you’re all bones!’ It warmed something inside Mellard every time she did that, something he couldn’t quite name.

“Of course, Mother. I’ll see that I do.”

An affronted sniff sounded somewhere in the pews, behind where he was kneeling in supplication, as he did so often these days. “You better. I’ll know if you don’t!”

Mellard could feel the smile tugging at his lips. For a moment he looked up at the statue of Andraste above the altar and wondered if it was wrong, to be smiling here when he should be concentrating on his verses. _Surely the Maker wouldn’t fault me for being happy in this place._

 

Overall, acclimatizing wasn’t easy. The magic was the worst part. Always there, crackling at the edge of his senses, enhanced by lyrium as they were.

Mellard realized soon enough that he was more sensitive to it than the other Knights around him. Likely because he had spent most of his time after receiving his philtre away from large concentrations of magic. Perhaps, also, because he had specifically trained to detect it, track it, through villages and wilderness alike.

The knowledge didn’t make its overwhelming presence any less grating. He felt the Circle like a constant pressure in the back of his mind, flaring into immediacy when a spell was cast nearby. Until now that immediacy had meant danger. It still did, in a way. He could hardly let his reflexes go to seed.

That didn’t make it easier to deal with his fight-or-flight instincts working overtime. With every flare of spellcraft Mellard caught himself gathering a Smite or Silence, especially at first.

At least his discipline was working well for him. He hadn’t yet let either fly, but for the once.

 

_Mellard had been wandering the halls, on guard rotation in the apprentices’ quarters, idly wondering which rotation was the most challenging to have something to keep his mind occupied._

_The one in the Enchanters’ halls, where they experimented at will sometimes? The Senior Enchanters’ quarters, with the way magic hung in the air, potent enough to make his teeth ache? This one, with its bubbly, sparking bursts, without rhyme or reason? No, the libraries and laboratories. Classes. The push of orchestrated spellcasting, flaring abruptly when it went wrong._

_You were actually expected to keep an eye on that and judge whether you should Cleanse the latest mess. But Maker help you if you did that before the Enchanter holding lectures thought it necessary. Some of them could tear you a new one as well as any drill instructor._

_His attention hadn’t wandered far. He was present, or so Mellard thought, for the task at hand. It had been more than enough until now._

_That changed in a heartbeat._

_A concentrated, purposeful spell flared from somewhere behind him. That alone might not have been too much. But he could tell the difference, now, better than ever before. This one was aimed._

_Aimed right for him and powerful enough to-_

_Mellard was moving before he could even think._

_Threw himself to the side to dodge the spell (It didn’t follow. Not target seeking?)_

_let it shatter against the wall (Blue Light. Ice? Lightning? Spirit?)_

_felt a shudder run up his arm at the proximity  (Lightning.)_

_and came up with a Smite ready and flying from his hand in the blink of an eye._

_He had just enough time to see who he was targeting before it hit. ‘Oh, bloody Void!’_

_The boy went down as if someone had cut the legs out right under him._

_Mellard had barely had time to check if the child had hurt himself falling, Maker’s Mercy, before one of the Enchanters on duty came running, took one look at the situation and all but caught flame with anger. “Knight Amell! What is the meaning of this!”_

_He had no excuses and he knew it. “I Smited him. I-“ No use for them, either. “You should get a healer. I didn’t pull it.” The mage went white. The full power of a trained Knight was more than enough to fell an Enchanter, much less an Apprentice barely into his teens._

_Corporal Combden was less than amused to be called in from the yard to deal with the fallout. “Give me one reason, Amell, and it better be good.” The lad was twelve, for Andraste’s sake. There should be no reason at all to slap a full-powered Smite onto an Apprentice that age._

_Amell, back straight as ever, couldn’t seem to look him in the eye. “He cast at me.“ A pause. Combden couldn’t say if it was shock or speechlessness. “Lightning, I think. Nothing adventurous.”_

_What a bloody mess. “A prank? And what rode you, then, to do what you did?”_

_The Knight’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He must have overpowered it. It felt-“ Another pause. Combden was about to demand his answers, Maker damn it, when the man looked up, straight at him and so serious he had to take his words for truth. “It felt almost strong enough to be a Shock.”_

_Any recrimination he had wanted to follow with died on the Corporal’s lips. “You’re sure.” It wasn’t really a question. “Walter.”_

_The Enchanter hanging about at the door looked over, eyes flinty when they skimmed over Amell. “Yes?”_

_“Kid do Primals this week, at any chance?”_

_The mage frowned, surprised. “Introductory classes, I think. Why?”_

_Corporal Combden gave in to the urge to press his hand against his face, gauntlet and all. “Any of you geniuses explain to him he’s not supposed to try and fry my Knights right in their armour?” This was going to be a long day._

_Mellard earned himself penance. To be honest, he felt he had earned himself worse but apparently that was what awaited you for ‘unnecessary roughness but justified use’ as Combden put it._

_The Enchanters seemed to be watchful around him after that. He couldn’t blame them._

_The boy, Maxwell Trevelyan, on the other hand, seemed irrepressible._

_Two weeks after the incident Mellard slid into his boots for morning drills only to find them filled with something earthy smelling and disgustingly squishy. He figured Karin had finally caught up with him and squelched through drills, mostly uncaring. This was hardly the worst that had ever gotten into his boots._

_It happened again. And again. Icy water in the leather hood of his armour. More muck, this time in his pockets. A whole live toad, in his bed. The animal did not look pleased by the premises._

_When Mellard found a very drowned mouse looking at him from his breakfast bowl he wasn’t surprised in the least but more than a little exasperated. Darrin took one look at his staring match with his rather too-alive meal and broke out into peals of laughter, the arse._

_He wasn’t the only one. A childlike giggle drew his attention, just in time to see a suspiciously red mop of hair duck out of sight through a side door._

_Mellard hadn’t thought he’d ever be so glad to find vermin in his food in his entire life._

 

Later, he would look back on that time almost fondly, no matter how difficult it had been. The true trials were only about to begin.

In 9:30 dragon, civil war took Ferelden. That wasn’t the worst of it either.

“The Blight?” Darrin sounded as disbelieving as he felt. “Are you serious?”

Karin, who had never quite forgiven Mellard for the slight upon her headdress, didn’t look up from the sword she was polishing as if it had done her honour injury. “Yeah.” Her face was grim. “They say the Fereldan Wardens died with the King. ‘S supposed to be spreading. We’ve got people in the harbour all the way from Lothering.”

She would know. Mellard had heard her once, saying she had cousins over there. _Maker._

Soon enough the outer ring of the City was full to bursting. The Teyrn closed the gates, sending all ships on that weren’t in immediate danger of capsizing. The City Guard was holding the peace by what seemed to be little more than spit and Ostwicker bullheadedness some days.

They were so pressed, not a month in they called upon the Chantry for support. When Commander Winfried returned from that particular meeting with the Revered Mother he looked like messing up in front of him might be the last thing a recruit might do right then.

Mellard wasn’t quite sure what had him so incensed about the matter. It only made sense. Of course the Order was called to serve in defence from magic but certainly aiding the faithful in their time of need could be no lesser cause.

Perhaps he feared their numbers would be spread thin between the Circle and the City.

Not that they could do differently, either way. Masses of people meant apostates, meant children freshly come into magic and parents that might try and hide them. Any Templar worth their salt knew that all too well.

Still, more than one Junior Knight was complaining about their change in duty roosters. Mellard took his as he took many things, as the Will of the Maker. An invariable fact that one best respond to promptly and with decorum.

 

Walking the streets to keep the peace was hard, he found.

Not because of weather, pocket thieves, or the hundred other things his fellow Knights seemed to find a trial, but because of the people. The refugees were easy to spot. Their clothes were worn down, more often than not, and there was a particular brand of harried pride about them. An air of loss, of quiet, defiant despair.

Mellard remembered wide open stretches of grass and corn, deep forests lighted only by a campfire. He remembered people, hardy and proud. Quick to laugh, to throw a growing boy an apple.

There was little laughter, here.

One day, at shift end, instead of returning to the barracks for a well-earned evening’s rest he found himself at the gates of the Chantry. The Revered Mother had opened it to the ailing when it had become apparent how bad the situation had become and not budged and inch on the matter, even when an enterprising lost soul had made off with Chantry silver. Seemingly, she was of the opinion that silver may be replaced, or so he had heard. Mellard couldn’t say he disagreed.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, looking up at the great gate, lost in thought and not all sure how he had come to be where he was. It must have been some time.

Eventually he was roused by the placid, bright voice of a Lay Sister. “Excuse me? You look lost. May I help you?”

“Oh.” Mellard hadn’t even heard her coming. He coloured in embarrassment. “No I-“ Why was he here? “I was wondering if there was something I could do. To help.”

There was. Maker, there was so much to do.

There were poultices to be mixed and sick to see to, order to be kept and disputes to be mediated. The registry of people arrived, of people lost or looked for by relatives had to be kept up to date. Had to be checked with every tearful request of whether someone had seen a father, a sister, a child. There was bedding to be found for those who had nowhere else to go, food to be prepared.

Sometimes it seemed the work would never end. At one point Mellard looked up and caught sight of another Knight across the room. Their eyes met, briefly, over their tasks.

They did not speak of it but Karin never again gave him grief for any childish spat that might have passed between them.

 

 


	4. The champions of the just

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blight ends, Starkhaven Circle burns and Mellard is called to do what he does best.

His hands were busy, but his heart was quiet. It was good to serve.

At the peak of Ostwick’s troubles his workload was such that he returned to the barracks so late it was early. Corporal Combden was already in the yard, eyeing the targets and contemplating to rouse the recruits for a proper sun-up drill. He took one look at the straggling knight and was about to chew him out when the face registered. That and the state he was in.

“Maker’s balls, boy.” If it had at least been someone he could have raked across the coals for whoring around and drinking out of turn. He gave Amell a hard look, then he sighed.

The Corporal had never quite liked the lad, always leery of how he had come to be at the Circle. Hunters tended to bite the hand that fed them. Strain against the reigns, when they were put on them. “At least you’ve got your heart in the right place, even if your sense could use some work. Get to bed, you’re use to no one like that.” Combden’s voice brooked no argument. “I’ll see your shift covered. Maker have mercy on you if this happens again ‘cause I sure won’t. Are we clear?”

They were all spread rather thin at that point.

 

Eventually the Blight ended. News about that was the most peculiar thing. The relief of it, the lightness and then, quite suddenly, like being punched in the gut, “Solona _Amell_?”

Darrin’s voice, half disbelieving. Whether that was about the fact that, apparently, the Blight was over, or who was supposed to have done the deed, Mellard couldn’t say. He was busy trying to breathe through whatever it was he was feeling. There was a lot of it, all tangled up.

His friend’s eyes found his, a trickster’s grin on his face. “Any relation?” Then Darrin had caught on to the expression on his face. Whatever it might have been.

 

_Laughter, bright and carefree. The shrieks that told him his sisters were brawling again in their Feastday clothes, trying to rub each other’s faces in the dirt._

_The way her mouth would set when she didn’t want to eat her vegetables, didn’t want to do her lessons because they were ‘Stupid Mother! I don’t need to do this, Mellard’s stitches are so much neater! He can do mine and I’ll never have to do this!’_

_‘Young lady, you will not make you brother do your chores, do you hear me!’_

 

Mellard couldn’t get words past the lump in his throat _. He hadn’t thought of her in years._

He sat awake that night, in the chapel again. Too many words caught in his heart, too many thoughts and memories. The way Solona would always want to know _everything_ about everything and be insulted if it didn’t make sense. The way her hair would smell when they huddled up in a pillow fort together, all theirs and a _secret_. He couldn’t quite make it out anymore, but there had been something about it that had only been hers.

Once, Mellard had thought of his siblings often. Had missed them so fiercely it was like a gaping wound. He had thought of what he would tell them, when he saw them again. About Mother and how she was so sad, about how much their Father scared him in the end. About the Templar that had come to get him, the boat ride across the Waking Sea. If they had seen that too, taken the same route.

When he had gotten older the idea of seeing them again had grown more and more distant. He had thought up letters, in his head, lying up in his bedroll under Ferelden’s cloudless star-bright sky. Letters he would never write, never send.

 

_Dear Oliver, I let the rabbit go again. Father would scoff at me but I know you understand…_

_… the sunlight hit the snow and it turned the entire mountain into something like out of a fairy tale, Solona, it was so pretty …_

_Daylen, I was the best in the practice yard at Highever. Can you believe it? I was never any good …_

_I killed someone yesterday, Emily. I scrubbed my hands until they were red but I think I can still feel the blood-_

He had stopped, eventually.

 _Perhaps,_ Mellard thought, considering how some of the Enchanters would look at him when they didn’t think he would see, _that was for the best._

He didn’t write Solona. He didn’t know what to say.

 

The Blight was over but many refuges didn’t leave. Mellard heard people grumble about that, sometimes, when he was out in the City on patrol.

He wasn’t sure why these misgivings were so often laced with surprise. Most of the Fereldans who had landed on the coast had little to nothing to their name, all they owned left behind so they might save their very lives. Such wasn’t conductive to travel, or starting anew after they had already done so once, not even a year ago.

Perhaps they would find their way back home in time, perhaps they wouldn’t. Perhaps Ostwick had become home, in the interim. It had certainly done so for him.

Guarding the Circle and the City of Ostwick was demanding as ever. Mellard hadn’t grown complacent, in his time there. At least he wouldn’t have called it so.  

And yet. Much as his duties were similar to what he had done before, much as he trained and would be called out occasionally to run down an apostate that had made themselves known, his skills suffered.

How much, he didn’t realize until news came in from Starkhaven, of their Circle burning down to its very foundation.

All hands were called to bring in the mages that had made off in the confusion.

Ostwick gave all it could spare in those perilous times, with its own streets only recently returned to the Guard’s capable hands alone. Not a month has gone by since Ostwick’s Templars were required for more than the occasional patrol, as they were before the Blight. Only a month, since their duties outside the Circle were reduced to guarding the Chantry and following up on hints of magic running wild.

The regular Knights were set to keeping watch in the outlying villages of Ostwick, while they let the hunters lose to comb the outer reaches.

There weren’t that many of them. Most that did take up the blades would spend their lives wandering from chapter to chapter, taking up the burden of seeing the protective hand of the Maker’s sworn knights extended villages and settlements that otherwise would rarely see a Templar. If they encountered threats too great for them to deal with they would requisition help from the closest garrison. Generally, they were on their own and seldom seen in the company of other Knights.

Even the archers outnumbered them more than two to one in the ranks, and their profession was equally hard to relate to the image the general public had of a Templar Knight.

Sword, shield and steadfast faith.

Not an arrow in flight, death brought swiftly and precise. A knife in the dark, the trap waiting for you like an open maw.

Perhaps it was little wonder the mages tended to fear hunters like few others. A regular Templar knight, at least, you saw coming even if they were just as relentless.

Mellard made for the borderlands in four days. He gritted his teeth against the strain and resolved to keep better watch over his training next time. Not a year past he could have cut his travel time by a third and not been any worse for wear. He had gotten too used to the slow trek through halls or streets, to regular meals he didn’t have to scrape together himself. _I will have to do better when I get back._

 

 

 

 

Being on his own was harder than he had anticipated. Mellard caught himself time and again with a quip on his lips meant for someone he had left back at the Circle. The quiet of night only broken by the crackling of his campfire he had longed for no two years past was too deep now. The world felt too vast with no one to walk beside him.

But he endured. He had a duty to fulfil. The Circle had taken the Phylacteries with it, going down, and if they didn’t find the runaways the hard way they wouldn’t find them at all.

Mellard did wonder how the other knights were faring. What he would come back to once he went home. _Home._ It had a shape again, after so many years that it hadn’t and he missed it fiercely. Some days. Most he was too busy for such things.

His craft returned to him quickly enough. Soon he was a shadow among trees again, if he so wished. His steps did not sound so loud anymore. _Bad habits._ On cobblestones it had made little difference.

There were good things about being out, of course. Villages that held less people than the Circle on any given day had their very own charm. Open stretches and green things soothed something inside his soul he hadn’t known was ailing.

Yet, with every day, with every trail he found, every mage he ran down his duties weighed on him more.

 _Would it have been easier_ , Mellard wondered, _with apostates?_ No, that wasn’t it. Those kind of encounters, too, often left a bad taste in his mouth. The ones fallen beyond all redemption less so, his path was clear there. What one could not save must be felled for the good of all.

More regretful were those that were free of demonic influence but would fight to the death rather than be taken. Hardy, for sure, and dangerous foes. The loss of life a true waste, not that it wasn’t always. It was just so unnecessary, then.

They would withstand a Harrowing, surely. Yet they chose to take a stand, to die at his hand. He could hardly forsake his duty and allow them to walk away, or kill him. Sometimes he managed to take them alive, despite their efforts. He had to take those victories where he could find them.

The mages Mellard was after this time weren’t apostates, though. Not in the strictest sense. Perhaps they could be considered such now. Not too long ago they had been Circle mages and that, more than anything, made them the worst kind of quarry.

Circle mages were difficult.

They weren’t weak, certainly not. He would not claim any person, any Harrowed mage, who had faced a demon and lived to be such. They were, perhaps, _untested_. In a different way.

A life behind Circle walls was one shielded from the hardships of the outside world. It held its own difficulties, Mellard was sure, but not the basest ones. They were provided for, protected, there. As such they could devote their efforts to learning and to dealing with the demons hounding their sleep.

Once on the loose that often came back to bite them in the arse. He had seen it before and it was never pretty. Much as some of them might wish for freedom, few were prepared for what it entailed. _Like setting a songbird free of its cage. It would fly but it might learn how to live or it might not._

It made running them down a nightmare.

There was the kind that knew when they were caught. That had, perhaps, run out of fear of being suspect simply for being a mage out of bounds. Perhaps they had seen their chance and thought no further. Sometimes, they had even found that they had bitten off more than they could chew and would come willingly.

That kind was easiest. They’d know better than to fight, give themselves up quickly and so Mellard would not have to do them harm.

There were those, of course, that had found the trials of the world too great, or been distracted in their vigilance. The ones he would find as abominations, already dead inside. All one could pray for was that the demon riding them hadn’t found too many victims before it was stopped. Those mages were lost, long before he found them.

Sometimes he wondered if he might have saved them had he been quicker. Especially if they were young. Mostly, Mellard remembered his lessons and put such thoughts to rest. One could not help those who had given up on themselves.

Some Circle mages, like their apostate brethren, would choose to fight and not stop until someone was breathing their last, or at least Smited unconscious.

The worst were the blood mages. Those and all the shades in between, for any mage might turn to the forbidden arts at any moment if they felt pressed to fight for their lives.

That more than anything made the whole affair insidious.

Mellard was supposed to bring them in. But had they gone too far? Were they going to kill him if he didn’t put them down permanently? Were they too dangerous to be brought to a Circle? Hard questions to answer, especially in the heat of battle when they were most pressing. A killing blow was easiest to deliver of all, it only took one slip of their guard but had it been earned?

Out here there was no one to judge his actions but the Maker and His bride.

He knew well, now, why his kind was often side eyed. Some felt the Maker would be lenient, perhaps approving, if they chose their actions harshly. Others did not think any judgement would find them if mortal eyes could not see what their actions wrought.

All he could do was the best he could and hope it would be the right thing, that it would be enough. May the Maker judge him for his sins, such as they were, once his duties found an end. _It wasn’t always that easy, of course. Some nights he could not sleep, kept awake by doubt, by the things he had done._

Months went by, in this way.

Picking up on trails, on rumours, and following them to their conclusion. All too often that conclusion was blood on his hands and a short verse spoken over a shallow grave. Not always, thank the Maker for His mercy, but often.

Mellard wished, on those sleepless nights, that he at least had someone to talk to. Would Darrin have understood? They had not spoken of such things, for the most part. His friend was more given to goofing around, making light of things. Yet he was a full knight with all that entailed. He had overseen more than one Harrowing, some of them gone badly. He had hunted apostates and the rare abomination in and around the City of Ostwick, as had they all.

Would he tell Mellard to put his misgivings aside? He had no idea.

Every death cost him, as it always had, but he hardened his heart. It had to be done. His were the hands that had to do it. To be swift was to be kind, the only kindness that could be given sometimes. He would not falter.

Some memories would never leave him. Such was the price to be paid for doing the Maker’s work.

 

_It is an accident, almost._

_Mellard has been wandering for hours, alongside the road. The weather is warm, warm enough for his armour to become uncomfortable quickly. He is used to that. Still, when he comes upon the inn he almost sighs in relief. He has lived mostly out of camps for weeks._

_Nothing unusual about that but a break would do him good. The trail Mellard had caught a few miles back had gone cold a while ago. Better to regroup and start fresh._

_It’s a simple house, heavily built in wood. Meant to last. Not fit to house many but there are few enough people out here. A cheery sign promises ale, the best in all the Free Marches. The exuberance makes him smile. ‘Well, we shall see.’_

_Mellard isn’t thinking of much when he enters. Little more than perhaps an ale and, more importantly, a bath that will feel like a Maker sent blessing after over a tenday living on streams, at most. The water runs cold out here, fresh and clean. Good for drinking, a bit of a trial for other things._

_The smell of fresh cooking hits his nose and sets his stomach to grumbling. Oh, a meal he won’t have to make himself. Perhaps they even have roasted potatoes, or can be charmed out of them if they aren’t already done. Despite anything his friends at home will claim he does know how to use pretty words and a smile to his advantage when it’s called for._

_The door swings shut, his eyes already adjusting to being inside. Casting a sweeping look across the inn room is entirely instinctual._

_That’s when it comes._

_The flare is so small Mellard almost misses it. But he doesn’t. All thoughts of a decent meal and a good night’s rest fly from his mind. ‘Mage.’_

_He does not freeze. It’s too obvious a tell to afford. His eyes search the room again, as if looking for an empty seat. Only a few people in. A group of three, farmers by the look of it. Eating, discussing animatedly about the market they are coming back from. “The prices of a pig these days!”_

_A laugh. “You complain, I’ve made enough to last my family a month!”_

_The serving girl, bustling about and whipping down tables. Looking up to greet him with a smile that goes a little fixed around the edges when she catches sight of the crest._

_Closest to the counter, a weary man staring into his mug. Expansive cloak, mud on the hems. Armed. Perhaps-? ‘No, not him.’_

_At the far side, next to the unlit fireplace, two figures in faded, travel worn clothes. They are ill fitted under the signs of use. Close at hand something that might have been a walking stick. As he takes them in the one facing him looks up. Their eyes meet._

_Mellard knows himself to be caught before the colour starts to drain from the too young face. ‘Bloody Void.’_

_That is the look of someone who is about to do something stupid. Like start a fight flinging magic about in a room full of people._

_Andraste give that he is fast enough. Mellard drops his pack and throws himself forward, towards their table, hands going for the blades on his back. The serving girl screams. “Out!”_

_His shout jolts the second one, but there’s nothing for it. He needs to get the common folk out of the line of fire. If he can just get close enough- Mellard has almost made it into range for a Smite when he has to duck and roll to avoid a lance of frost. It takes the door clean off the hinges._

_Out of the corner of his eye he can see the man, the tired one, jumping to his feet, hand going for his sword. Everyone else seems shocked to stillness. “Get them out of here!”_

_Mellard cannot waste time to see if he is obeyed. Magic burns against his senses, so close, and this time he isn’t fast enough to skirt the spell. Lightning crawls across his arm, makes his teeth clench in pain. The only blessing is that he doesn’t lose his blade._

_Maker, but these odds don’t favour him._

_He has to duck and weave while they put their considerable power into keeping him at a distance. It’s their only chance and they well know it._

_The inn room, cluttered as it is, is as much help as hindrance. Mellard meets another lightning bolt with a Silence and throws himself behind a toppled table to avoid the blast of arcane energy hot on its heels._

_He has to get closer. Or, failing that, find a projectile he can use. Throwing your blades when they are your only pair is just foolish._

_He uses the moment of safety to grab for his pouch. The rush of battle has driven the knowledge of what, exactly, is left in there straight out of his mind. ‘Damn it.’ He hadn’t thought he’d run straight into whomever it was he was chasing._

_Mellard’s hand closes around the distinct shape of a smoke bomb. ‘Thank the Maker.’_

_He shifts to throw and bumps into something. A glance at the obstacle is all he can spare. Glassy eyes stare back at him from a bearded face. One of the farmers. There’s frost in his hair, spikes of ice stuck in furrows torn into his face, his side. If Mellard hadn’t left behind the need to be sick at such a sight long ago he would have been._

_Grim determination sets into his bones. This will end here._

_The bomb goes first, filling the entirety of the room with a screen too thick to see through. He pulls his neckpiece up and aims by their coughing. The shard of ice makes a wet, sticking sound when he pulls it from the corpse but it flies true. There’s a pained shout._

_Before Mellard can follow up, use the cover while he still has it, more magic washes over him. The feel of it has his hair stand on end. ‘Oh no.’_

_Something wraps around his ankle. It’s a hand, with a grip like a claw. Beside him the corpse is twitching, growing more animated by the second._

_The Templar drives his blades into its neck, channelling all he has into the Cleanse. He has to stab it twice more before it will stay put. ‘Andraste preserve me.’_

_The smoke is fading already. He needs to be quick._

_Mellard ducks out of his hiding place, moving as fast as he dares. Any sound he might make gains unexpected cover. “What- What was that? What did you do, Meric?”_

_“What I had to, did you see what he just did to my arm? He’ll kill us!” So close. Just a few more steps._

_“No. You can’t- Please tell me you didn’t-“ At least one of them seems to be as appalled by the use of blood magic as they should be._

_He can see them now. One, almost facing him, face thrown into an ugly sneer. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, revealing a deep gauge. The bleeding doesn’t seem to bother the man. ‘It wouldn’t. Who knows if he even feels it, now.’_

_“Don’t get squeamish on me! We’ll finish him off and then we’ll be just fine!”_

_The other one, back to the Templar’s approach, is shying away from his compatriot. Stumbling back, their common enemy all but forgotten._

_A mistake._

_Mellard sweeps the legs out from under him, Smite already on his fist. The lad makes a wounded sound going down and doesn’t move again. All that’s left now is the bloodmage._

_The bloodmage trying to compel him._

_He gives his head a sharp shake, clearing away the cobwebs grasping for his thoughts, his will, and meets the man’s eyes glare for glare. Already, he can see the glint in them this kind gets, the calculation involved in looking at someone and seeing nothing but power, power to tear from their veins and use however you pleased. ‘Not this time, you won’t.’_

_Sidestepping a spell, and he will have to scrub the sheer feeling of it off his skin later, Mellard dashes into a turn, grabbing a tankard off the floor. It’s a good one, sturdy and with a cap. Still half full. He throws the entire thing straight at the mage’s face._

_The man’s arms shoot up and he lets a mind blast lose in instinctual defence. The force throws the projectile of course but it has already done its work._

_While his opponent still recovers his attention Mellard is already behind him. He drives both blades deep, in under the ribs as far as they will go. Tears them back out and cuts his throat for good measure. Maker, but you never know with bloodmages._

_The mage falls to the floor, all but beheaded. Red floods across the floorboards, seeping between. ‘Oh, this will never come out.’_

_Silence falls._

_When nothing more happens, and he has Smited the corpse just to be sure, he ties the other one and drags him outside. Drops him a little ways down and across the road, far enough that no one will be bothered by what comes next. He leaves him there to get the dead one._

_At the door a portly man is waiting for him, white as milk. His face looks like it is meant for a jovial expression, laughter and an inviting smile. It must be the inn keep. Mellard can’t decide if he thinks the man more brave or more foolish to look for the aftermath of that fight._

_“’S it done then?” His voice trembles only a little. He must not have been inside._

_“Almost.” The Templar looks at the gaping hole that used to be a door, the ruin within. At what is left of his pack, strewn across the floor. “Have you got a shovel?”_

_Sometime later, just when Mellard has made the hole deep enough, the surviving mage comes around. He knows it by the way he goes still, catching his attention by how he’s trying so hard not to._

_The Templar steps out of the shallow grave and puts his borrowed tool down. He’s not required to bring it back, or so the inn keep said. Not unusual. Confronted with these things people generally try to leave them behind as fast as possible. At least they had agreed to see the farmer to the next Chantry over for a proper burial, grisly as the sight of him had been._

_Mellard grips the mage by the rope to pull him upright, seated against a tree. Cleansed him, to shake out any mana he might have recovered. Not that it should have been much. “Stay. I’ll be done soon.”_

_The lad keeps his eyes pressed shut, shaking under his hands. Was he the one to catch that man in an ice spell? Mellard has no idea. Neither of them seemed to care much for the bystanders. And yet._

_This one hasn’t gone the way the other one did. Without proof of further crimes that will have to be enough. He’ll recommend they keep an eye on him, from there on out. Not that they won’t anyway, runaway that he is._

_But he has work to do, still._

_Leaving the mage for now the Templar gets back to the task at hand. He drags the body over, rolls it into the hole. The boy behind him chokes down a sob, starts to cry. He must have looked._

_Mellard drops the fire flask in. The grave goes up in flames, almost too hot to stand so close. Better the people here don’t have to find out what an Arcane Horror is on top of everything. By the time the fire burns itself out there was little left but ashes._

_He clasps his hands and bows his head. “And so Andraste prayed: My Creator, judge me whole. Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.” The Templar pauses at the end of the verse. “If it may yet be purified, oh Maker, take this misguided soul and let it know righteousness once more.”_

_It will have to be enough. He still needs to fill this back up and then get the live one on the road. He’ll have to find the next chapter of the Order as soon as possible for the hand-off._

_This is going to be a long day._

 

 


End file.
